“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”
I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket—the book was gone.
“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.
“I have it not—I have lost it!”
“A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man, “lost it!”
“You had better retire,” said the other.
“How shall I appear before the party who intrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all that I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her,—appearances are certainly against me.”
“They are so—you had better retire.”
I moved towards the door. “Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.”
“What is that?” said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.